“Copy that,” Morales said, his voice coming through with the attention of someone who was already moving to execute.
I turned back toward the house, holstering my weapon with careful attention. The valley was quiet around me—just the soft tick of the greenhouse heaters and the sound of my own breathing, still working its way back to normal.
The greenhouse glass caught the first gray light of morning as I crossed the yard, turning from black to deep purple to the green-brown that meant full day wasn’t far off.
The grow lights were still running on their timers inside, the hum of them audible even at twenty yards—steady, indifferent, completely oblivious to the fact that men with guns had just tried to breach the property and failed.
Jackson was on the porch when I came around the corner of the fourth greenhouse—standing in the doorway with my sidearm in his hand, his parents and the girl visible as lit shapes in the hallway behind him.
His father’s voice was already audible and climbing, words I couldn’t quite make out, but tone unmistakable: the sound of a man who believed volume was the same thing as authority.
Jackson watched me cross the yard with the expression I’d catalogued from the first attack: not relief, not anger, both of them running underneath something steadier and harder. Hisshoulders were set, his jaw tight, the tight control that meant he was working hard to keep himself together.
He did not turn around when his father’s voice rose another half-octave—just stayed exactly where he was, my gun in his hand, his eyes on my face as I moved across the yard.
I came up the porch steps and stopped in front of him, close enough that I could see the lines of tension around his eyes, the careful way he was holding himself.
I reached out and took my sidearm from his hand—not because Jackson couldn’t be trusted with it, but because the weight of it back in my grip was the fastest signal my own body understood: threat over.
I checked the chamber by habit—round ready, safety on, magazine full—then holstered it with careful attention. Jackson watched my face the whole time, his eyes tracking each movement, reading the meaning in how I handled the weapon.
“Three,” I said, keeping my voice level. “All secured.”
Jackson gave the slow filing nod he always gave a status report—the motion that meant he was processing, calculating, making the kind of assessments that had kept him alive through ten years of active duty. Then his eyes dropped for exactly one beat to my bleeding knee and came back up.
He said nothing about it.
He stepped back to let me through the door, the movement so slight I might have missed it if I hadn’t been watching for it. Inside, the living room was exactly what I’d expected—the kind of emotional battlefield that belonged in parking lots and hospital waiting rooms, not in a farmhouse in Montana.
Jackson’s father was on his feet in the center of the room, face red, voice already at the register of a man who had been looking for a target since the driveway.
He rounded on me the moment I stepped inside, one hand already gesturing in a way that meant he was three steps into whatever performance he’d decided we were having.
“You,” he said. “Who are you? What is this? What kind of life is my son living?”
I looked at him once—took in the set of his shoulders, the careful way he was holding himself, the performance of it all—then looked at Jackson.
Jackson was standing very still beside the door, one hand resting low against his stomach the way it always did now. His face was at the flat calm he used when he was deciding whether something was worth the energy—not the careful neutrality that meant he was hiding what he felt, but the stillness that meant he’d already made his decision and was just waiting for the right moment to execute it.
I moved to Jackson’s side and stood there, shoulder to shoulder, close enough that our arms were touching. Not quite holding, not quite claiming, just the physical fact of two people standing in the same space.
The message required no translation—not to Jackson, not to his father, not to anyone who’d spent five minutes in the same room with both of us.
Jackson glanced at me sideways—something shifted briefly in his expression that was not quite gratitude and not quite relief, but lived in the same territory as both—then turned back to his father.
“You’re going to sit down now,” Jackson said, his voice very quiet and very final. “Cruz needs to make some calls. When those calls are done, we’re going to have a conversation about what just happened on this property and why. And you’re going to listen.”
His father opened his mouth—already reloading for another volley.
Jackson said his name once, just his name—the emphasis that meant this wasn’t a request, but the kind of directive that came with consequences.
His father sat down.
I stepped into the kitchen and pulled out my phone. Sterling answered on the second ring, his voice coming through as if he was already moving to execute whatever came next.
“Cruz,” he said. “Talk to me.”
“Three men at the east tree line,” I said, keeping my voice level. “Professional, not local. Peterson network, based on equipment and approach pattern. They hit the property with a two-position advance designed to push occupants toward the front of the house and away from vehicles. All three secured, no casualties on our side.”
